Vikram took slow, steady breaths, feeling the dry desert air fill his lungs. The weight of the revelations pressed on him, but he forced himself to push them aside. Worrying wouldn't change his fate—only action would. He needed clarity, a steady mind, if he was to navigate this world.
Rising from the cushioned seat for the second time, he finally took in his surroundings. The carriage swayed gently, its interior draped in white cloth that did little to block the humid breeze. Through the gaps, he caught glimpses of the people outside—tired figures trudging forward, their faces worn with exhaustion.
Stepping to the threshold, Vikram's breath caught in his throat.
Heat waves shimmered in the distance, distorting the horizon into a mirage. Beautiful as it was, he knew the truth—this was no ordinary land. This was a graveyard for the unprepared.
"This is dangerous," he thought grimly.
Yet, he had no intention of standing idly by. Without hesitation, Vikram leapt from the carriage, landing barefoot on the desert floor—only to regret it instantly.
He braced for the scorching agony of sunbaked sand against his skin, but... nothing. The ground was warm, yes, but nowhere near unbearable. A realization struck him. This body—his new body—was something beyond human. Strength thrummed through his limbs, his muscles defined with a precision that exuded power without excess bulk. His bronze complexion shimmered under the sun, glowing as though it belonged here.
This body wasn't just strong—it was built for something greater.
Running a hand through his dark, wind-tousled hair, Vikram shifted his attention to the weary travelers around him. Despite their exhaustion, their gazes flickered with something else.
Fear.
He frowned. Why were they afraid? What had he—no, the previous owner of this body—done to make them look at him like that?
Then, he saw the carriage.
Or rather, what pulled it.
Not camels. Not horses.
People.
Their shoulders strained beneath the massive weight, each step labored, sweat glistening on their skin as they dragged the cumbersome vehicle forward.
Vikram's stomach twisted.
Only someone truly cruel—or truly tyrannical—could ride in comfort while others toiled like beasts of burden.
A sudden shuffle of hurried footsteps broke through his thoughts. He turned just as a hunched figure rushed toward him, moving with desperate urgency.
The moment the hunchback reached him, they collapsed onto the burning sand, groveling at his feet. Their voice trembled.
"Oh Mighty God Blood, I am sorry! Truly sorry for my incompetence in failing to get the mighty one out of this damnable desert!"
Vikram stiffened.
God Blood? Mighty One?
The words sent a ripple through his mind, tugging at something distant, something old. He had heard of such beliefs before—of divine rulers, of those said to carry the blood of gods. Ancient Egypt came to mind, with its pharaohs and their claimed descent from the divine.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
Three figures emerged from the front of the caravan, striding toward him with purpose. Simultaneously, two others approached from the rear.
Vikram squared his shoulders, his instincts sharpening.
The man in the center drew his attention first. A scar marred his face, running from temple to jaw, twisting his expression into something permanently sinister. His eyes—dark, unreadable—bore into Vikram with a murderous intensity.
Danger.
A predator recognizing another.
The two men flanking him were smaller, their bodies leaner, but they carried the same air of hostility, their lighter scars telling tales of battle and bloodshed. They studied Vikram, then exchanged a nod.
A silent understanding.
Suppressing his unease, Vikram met their gaze and returned the nod, his face carefully composed. He refused to show weakness. His attention flicked back to the trembling hunchback still groveling in the sand.
"Stand up," Vikram commanded, his voice steady.
The words came naturally, a reflection of the man he now had to embody. Whatever role this "God Blood" held, he had to maintain it.
The hunchback scrambled to obey, but before Vikram could process anything further, a sudden force shoved him forward.
He staggered, catching himself in the shifting sands. Instinct flared—an attack? He turned sharply, only to find the scarred man already stepping back, a false look of apology plastered across his face.
A dreadful realization settled over Vikram.
This is going to be difficult
The scarred man bowed deeply, bending at a precise ninety-degree angle. It was an exaggerated display of respect—too exaggerated. And though his face was lowered, Vikram knew.
There was a smile beneath that facade.
A message had been sent.
The balance of power was being tested.
Tension thickened the air as Vikram met the scarred man's gaze, his teeth clenched. A challenge simmered between them.
But not yet.
Not now.
With a slow breath, Vikram forced his body to relax. He lifted a hand in a dismissive wave, as if he hadn't noticed the blatant provocation. He had been thrown into this world blind, but he was starting to understand.
This wasn't the time to lash out.
This was the time to endure.
To coil.
And when the moment was right—
To strike.